


Stressed

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Series: Commissioned Works [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Courtship, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Flirting, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Romance, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), aymeric is trying his best, sorta!! very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: “If I may impose upon your goodwill, I would like to ask a favor.”“What is it, Ser Aymeric?”He swallows, doing his best not to fidget, and says as evenly as possible, “If you could, perhaps, act as family to the Warrior of Light, it would be much obliged. She is wont to overwork herself and Francel has made your talents for─” nitpicking, criticizing, caring in the most aggressive of ways ─“guidance quite clear. Your assistance on this matter would mean the world.”
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Series: Commissioned Works [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011288
Kudos: 16
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Aymeric de Borel x WoL Recommendations





	Stressed

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by [@KrystaYvisual](https://twitter.com/KrystaYvisual)  
> Krysta is their WoL and is in no way mine!
> 
> Please understand that this work does not and will not contain links to my commissions or any related commercial/for-profit sites. These work was negotiated separate from Ao3. I do not take any profit from hosting publicly released commissions on this site.

Aymeric does not mind overseeing Temple Knight training, so long as he has company. It’s not the worst job he could be saddled with on a misty Sunday morning (that award goes to mucking the chocobo stables in full armor) but it is still  _ brisk.  _ He shivers, rubbing his arms with freezing fingers, and does his best to motivate himself to stay until the end of his shift. The siren call of warm spiced wine and a blanket makes him tap his feet impatiently. He just wants to go  _ inside.  _

At his side is Krysta, Ishgard’s favorite outsider, who seems to be tolerating the cold about as well as he is. Her breath clouds in front of her face, fur-lined hood pulled down to her brow, and Aymeric worries for the state of her tail where it sticks out of her heavy coat. Had Ishgard seasons, a morning this cold would surely be within the depths of a bitter winter and not what would have been summer prior to the Calamity. He prays to Halone that the recruits will complete their training soon and that he can hurry Krysta to the Borel manor before she freezes solid. 

He tries for conversation to keep his mind off of how he can no longer feel his nose. “My apologies for requesting your assistance with this,” he says, contrite. “‘Tis not a post I’d have been able to suffer through alone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with suffering together,” Krysta replies, smiling. She hops from one foot to the other, flexing her toes and grimacing. “Though, I will admit that I am beginning to detest the early-morning cold. My feet are more akin to ice than flesh and bone, I fear.”

Aymeric grimaces. 

“A familiar feeling, I take it?”

“Indeed,” he says, disgust audible. “Estinien and I both hold our Temple Knight days in  _ high regard.” _

She laughs, coughing softly when the dry air irritates her throat. “This is still more enjoyable than some places I have been,” she admits, “and I am all the better for your company, Aymeric.”

“There have been worse places than mornings spent colder than the Hell of Ice?”

Krysta nods. She fiddles with her hands when she speaks, voice uncharacteristically anxious when she says, “Yes. Many places. If I am… completely honest, being an adventurer is stressful. It is not simply travelling and fighting monsters. It’s become a way of life that I cannot shake.”

Aymeric struggles to find a response. He does not want to make her feel like he is not taking her seriously, or that her suffering is so easily solved, but he also wonders if she has ever asked others for help. “I know you to be more than capable,” he starts, pausing to collect his thoughts, “but I also… I fear that you may push yourself too hard at times. I─ _ we  _ are here to help, should you ever need it. You needn’t shoulder that burden alone.”

“Thank you,” she says, but Aymeric feels it’s just to appease him. If anything, she is more closed off than before. He wishes he knew how to ease her inhibition and encourage her to trust in him and others who care for her.

Krysta is an incredible woman. She adventures, she cares for her allies, she cleans up her own messes and helps others sort out their troubles as well. She always puts others first even when it just tires her out to the point where her  _ bones  _ ache with the need to rest. He wants to help her get that chance to put herself first, but, before that can happen, he needs to make sure she knows she can ask for help when she needs it. 

“Should you ever need a day to yourself, I am sure I can arrange for it.” He taps at the detailing on his gloves and winces when his wrist throbs, an old break that never healed quite right, overly cold beneath the lined mail of his sleeve. 

Krysta shakes her head, frowning. “I am happy to help others. It is no trouble to get by as I am.”

Aymeric would like to point out that it  _ is  _ trouble, thank you very much, and she had made it clear that she is in desperate need of a break not even a quarter of a bell earlier. Instead, he tries for a different approach. 

He completes his shift, sees Krysta to the door of Fortemps manor and into the company of a very groggy Alphinaud, and then searches for one Francel de Haillenarte. The young man in question is found two steps from the Skysteel Manufactory, soot smudged across his jaw from what Aymeric assumes was some last-minute favor for Stephanivien, and seems more than happy to entertain a conversation on his way to the airship landing. His counsel on the matter of Krysta’s need for respite is clear─anything House Haillenarte has at its disposal would readily be given, should she have need of it. 

Aymeric feels himself break into a grin when he asks, “Does that offer extend to the recruitment of your most  _ proper  _ relatives?”

Francel gives him a look that says he is less worried about whatever Aymeric has planned and more how he intends to survive the wiles of his nitpicky aunts and uncles. “As I said, should you have need of it, it shall be done,” he says, confusion audible. “For  _ what,  _ you have informed me. I cannot fathom  _ how  _ this will assist in your endeavor, but I pray that the saints will watch over you. Though, I must ask, could this not be solved by her companions?”

“Young Alphinaud and miss Tataru?”

“Yes.”

He frowns, thinking. “I considered it, all told, but I feel they have already tried interventions. Miss Tataru is exceedingly skilled at ensuring she achieves her goals, but there has been no improvement in Krysta’s workload.”

“I wish you the best of luck, then,” Francel says, patting him on the arm with a smile. “I am sure the Fury will watch over you.”

They part ways shortly thereafter. Aymeric continues his quest, stopping by the Jeweled Crozier for a healthy portion of birch candy (for  _ Krysta,  _ of course. He has syrup and an entire tin full of the hard sugar candies within the drawer of his desk) before collecting himself, squaring his shoulders, and entreating the loudest and most painfully caring Haillenarte aunties for their cooperation with his plan. 

He’d explained it to Francel during their walk with little issue. He simply repeats what he had already said. 

“If I may impose upon your goodwill, I would like to ask a favor.”

“What is it, Ser Aymeric?” 

He swallows, doing his best not to fidget, and says as evenly as possible, “If you could, perhaps, act as family to the Warrior of Light, it would be much obliged. She is wont to overwork herself and Francel has made your talents for─” nitpicking, criticizing, caring in the most aggressive of ways ─“guidance quite clear. Your assistance on this matter would mean the world.”

The ladies look at him, a few from above the rim of their ornate teacups, and agree. The next time they see a certain adventurer in town, they will do their utmost to harry her into a day off (or a whole  _ week!  _ They’d managed it with Laniaitte before and they would quite like to do it again). 

Aymeric spends the rest of his day sorting through petitions and staring blankly at letters from backwards officials who have too much time on their hands. Lucia kicks him out come nightfall with a fond pat on the shoulder and a reminder to turn in his application for holiday in the morning. 

He trudges home through the sudden snowfall, boots crunching and clicking against ice and stone, and is nearly  _ painfully  _ grateful for the warm entry hall of the Borel Manor. After defrosting in front of the fireplace and putting away an entire bowl and a half of bouillabaisse, he heads off to bed. 

Sleep is slow in coming. He tosses. He turns. He opens a window for some fresh air and regrets it the moment all the warmth built up in his room floods out and leaves him shivering. All he can think of is the plan. The ridiculous, hopefully successful plan. 

He knows Krysta can handle herself. She’d proven it time and time again. He would not even think to question her skill. He will question her self-management, however. She needs rest, if not a vacation from all that which rests atop her shoulders. Aymeric knows he cannot assist with removing that burden, but he  _ can  _ help her understand that there are many within Ishgard who are there to support her in every endeavor. 

After sleeping on it, he feels less confident in the arrangements he had made, but he is still determined to see it through. He pulls on his regalia of office, stops by the kitchen for a quick cup of tea (read: syrup with a spot of leaf-flavored water on top), and hurries to his office. Lucia briefs him on the day’s ledger before leaving to attend to her own duties. He waits until she’s down the hall before flipping through the letters, folding them up, and tossing all thirty-or-so sheets of parchment into the refuse bin. He skims petitions, knowing she would be cross with him being anything less than thorough, and speeds through as much as he can before the bell tolls for lunch. 

Lunch means more tea and perhaps some warm salted meat from the vendor Krysta had been raving about to Alphinaud a week before. When he arrives, he finds her among a gaggle of Haillenarte nobles like some sort of overly-adored debutante. It feels very much like a speak-of-the-devil situation where he had only thought of her in passing and there she is in all her Miqo’te-shaped glory. 

He makes to pass by and simply listen from a safe distance when her hand shoots out and snags him by the wrist. He has all of a second to plaster on a polite smile before she says, “Aymeric is dear to me, but we aren’t  _ courting.  _ We’re just friends.” 

One of the nobles gives them a look of abject disbelief. “That you would presume to lie so openly,” she sniffs. “Holding hands and standing shoulder to shoulder is unbecoming if you are speaking truth.”

Krysta flushes pink. “That’s not too uncommon outside of Ishgard. This is the closeness of friends─”

“And what of the dinner? We’ve  _ all  _ heard of it.”

She shoves him in front of herself and says, “Yes, Aymeric, tell them.”

Aymeric flounders when they crowd him, asking follow up questions that just demand more answers. This was a terrible idea, he learns, but how Krysta smiles apologetically as she makes her escape is worth it. 

Or, rather, makes  _ their  _ escape. 

She pulls him from the gaggle and takes off down the street, hand laced with his. He stumbles but soon matches her stride. If he had been called lovesick before, he can only imagine the rumors that would circulate  _ now.  _

He finds that he does not mind that all too much. 

The cobblestone is uneven beneath their feet as they run, speeding past young scholars and a blur of pink and brown that might have been Tataru haggling with a jeweler, and do not stop until they’re nearly halfway across Foundation. They pant for breath in the shade of one of Ishgard’s many pedestrian bridges. Krysta laughs, pushing silvery hair out of her face, and asks, “Are  _ all  _ of Francel’s family like that?”

“Not all,” he replies between breaths, “but most.”

She groans.

“Not fond of the overbearing type?”

“Not one whit,” she replies. “I am of the opinion that we ought to choose our own families. Being pestered into marriage by someone you have blood ties to does not feel very familial.”

He nods, throat burning from the dry air and their sprint. “That is common care here, though I can imagine it can be less than endearing.”

“You can  _ imagine?” _

“I can  _ agree,”  _ he amends with a smile. “What say you to a peaceful lunch? Private, of course, and without any engagements following.”

She raises a brow. “Are you suggesting a holiday?” she asks. “Are we to escape Lucia’s wrath as well as Tataru’s?”

“Mayhaps,” he replies, mischief coloring his words. “After facing the most fearsome of foes, what else could grant me pause?”

Krysta laughs, eyes crinkling with how wide she smiles. “That they were. I am glad for your help.”

“In defeating them, or baiting them?”

“Both?”

He shakes his head, smiling fondly at her. “I would come to your aid anytime you need, should you wish it,” he reminds. “It need not be just to escape the hungering horde of Haillenartes.”

“If time allows, I may,” she says, tentatively. It is less bleak than her response during the morning watch. 

“So… lunch and a holiday?”

She nods. “Lunch and a  _ short  _ holiday.”

He offers his hand, palm up as is proper, and waits for her to take it before adding, “Lucia thinks I’m still in the office.”

“Aymeric!”

He simply laughs and tags her along the route back to the Borel manor. They have an entire afternoon to spend in each other’s company. He doesn’t want to waste a second of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [jingles happily across the grand ballroom]
> 
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


End file.
